A Weekend At Home
by CreativeWords
Summary: It had been a short, simple voicemail. Would you consider coming home for the weekend? Love you, Mum. Sherlock had done something. Obviously. When Mycroft comes home from uni for the weekend, he discovers Sherlock has taken up a new hobby - detective work. Kid!lock with lots of exploration of the Holmes family dynamics. Posted in small scenes as I have time
1. Friday afternoon

Newton's First Law: an object will remain at rest or in uniform motion in a straight line unless acted upon by an external force.

* * *

It had been a short, simple voicemail. _Would you consider coming home for the weekend? Love you, Mum._

Sherlock had done something. Obviously.

The fact that Mummy hadn't even said his brother's name meant it was enough to make mentioning it around Father dicey. Probably suspended yet again, and for God only knew what. The fact that Sherlock hadn't been waiting with Father and Mummy to welcome Mycroft when he dashed in the front door chased by an early November deluge meant they were at the worst of Sherlock's stubborn backlash. He hugged his mother, shook hands with his father, made it a point to smile and meet both sets of eyes with bland reassurance. Father was tense, avoidant, all angles and clenched muscles. Mummy was wilting, a puddle of vaguely trembling limbs and worried eyes. Mycroft swept her with a second glance. Fragile smile, but none of the warning signs he knew.

Ah yes, home.

He hadn't missed it.

After depositing his case in his room, he came back downstairs to find Father's study door closed and a strident phone conversation leaking through it. Standard procedure, then. Mycroft turned left and headed to the library, where he could expect Mummy to be. She was sitting in the wingback chair closest to the door, sipping a cup of tea.

He smiled and drew a breath to speak, but she put a finger to her lips and cut her eyes to the third bookshelf to the right of the door. He nodded his understanding. Sherlock had retreated to the room behind the hidden panel and would be able to hear their conversation.

"Is term going well?" Mummy asked.

Mycroft poured himself the remaining cup of tea, spooned more sugar than he ought into it, and did not pitch his voice lower to match hers. "Fairly."

"Good professors?"

"Fenwick is a bore, but it's difficult to make microeconomics interesting at half past seven."

"No trouble."

It was meant to be a question, but she phrased it as a statement. Mycroft never had trouble, never caused trouble, never did anything but solve trouble.

He smiled as blandly as before. "Never."

They sipped their tea and watched the rain lash the window till the silence cracked with the waiting.

"What happened this time?"

She cut her eyes to the panel again, but Mycroft waited. He wasn't above smoking his brother out of his den.

"Well, he was taken to the headmaster's office because of some business to do with the mice in the laboratory."

Mycroft repressed a groan, but allowed himself to close his eyes to absorb this. "Extracurricular experiments?"

"Apparently," Mummy said. "Two dead, one in the throes when the class arrived."

"And they're sure it was –" Mycroft cut himself off and changed the question. "What poison did he use?"

Mummy shrugged. "They didn't tell me and I didn't want to know. That was only the first part of the story."

Mycroft squared his shoulders and nodded for her to continue. He thought he detected some noise from the other side of the panel, but he couldn't be sure.

"Well, while he was in the headmaster's office, he apparently… made some observations about the headmaster and his secretary that were…"

"Indelicate?" Mycroft supplied.

"Precisely."

A definite thump from the other room. Sherlock disapproved of the way the story was told, then. Mycroft had no sympathy.

"How long is he suspended?"

"A week, but they want to meet with your father and me before he comes back. It's the third time he's been suspended, and this is only his second year."

"Does Father know about the meeting?" Mycroft asked.

"He was the one who took the call."

Another wince. "And Sherlock is… alright?"

Mummy nodded. "He hasn't, you know. Not in a year."

Reassuring, but only barely. His father had a notoriously short memory when it came to keeping promises. Particularly when provoked.

The panel opened emphatically, though only just far enough to reveal Sherlock, wearing a t-shirt, flannel pjyama trousers, and a black robe that all looked rumpled enough to have been slept in several days running, and looking cross. He slid out of the secret room and closed the panel behind him.

"Sherlock, your brother came to visit for the weekend," Mummy said unnecessarily, beckoning him closer.

Sherlock, all gangly limbs and unruly hair, stayed where he was. Mycroft met his gaze, returning his cool assessment. They had not parted well when last they saw each other, something of a pattern since Mycroft first left for uni, and it seemed Sherlock was as capable of holding a grudge as he was of murdering rodents.

The rumples in Sherlock's clothing bore traces of splashes of something, and his fingers where he was fidgeting with the dangling belt of his robe were reddened. Mycroft could have deduced he was experimenting with something without the physical evidence, but on what remained more of a mystery. Some irritant, to be sure. He shifted his chin toward the secret panel, raising his eyebrows a fraction. Sherlock's nostrils flared in defiance. Mycroft cooled his eyes, letting the lids settle slightly. Sherlock quite frankly didn't care enough of what others thought of him to be secretive, so the use of the room was a surprise. It had been Mycroft's preferred haunt when he lived at home because Mummy would have considered it an imposition of privacy to venture within, and Father never went in search of anyone. They came to him. For Sherlock to be silently forbidding Mycroft to enter was… uncharacteristic.

"Well, I should see if dinner is almost ready," Mummy said, if possible deflating even further. "Your father will be hungry."

She put a hand on Mycroft's shoulder as she passed, but her eyes stayed on Sherlock.


	2. Friday evening

"Have you heard from Garamond since term began?" Father asked from the head of the table.

Mycroft waited until he'd passed the bowl of potatoes to Mummy before answering. "He sent a letter last week informing me that they would be happy for me to return to the position over winter holidays if I wished to make a little money."

"Take it," Father barked immediately. "Positions like that don't come easily, my boy. Don't let that laziness of yours keep you from making something of yourself."

Mycroft considered pointing out the extensive application process he'd undergone to land the Treasury internship in the first place, or the fact that he had spent his entire summer holidays working 6 or 7 days a week, or the fact that he must have done something to impress them or he never would have gotten the invitation to return. But he gave a tight-lipped smile and nodded.

"Yes, sir."

The sigh that Sherlock huffed from across the table might have been covered had there been any other noise at the table that moment. There was an instantaneous twitch of reaction around the table as Mummy looked to Sherlock and Mycroft turned to Father, who was setting his silverware on his plate with an emphatic _clink_.

"Do you have something to say?"

Sherlock straightened his shoulders, but Mummy spoke.

"Now, Siger, he's just restless. With this rain, he's been cooped up –"

"Cooped up inside with nothing to do. Well, he'd have something to do if he were at school, wouldn't he?" He turned his attention back to Sherlock. "Well? Do you have something to say about the fact your brother has a chance to land a worthwhile job when he graduates, instead of throwing away his opportunities?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his father.

"His opportunities or yours?"

Mycroft considered kicking his brother under the table. Mummy closed her eyes and leaned back, bracing herself. Apparently the last six months had done nothing for Sherlock's self-control.

"My opportunities?" Father repeated.

"Good long-term investment, I suppose, having your dutiful son there. Cheaper in the long run. For your firm, I mean."

Mycroft hadn't realized that Sherlock was aware of any of their father's business dealings, but it was clear he'd picked up quite a lot he oughtn't. Par for the course for his younger brother.

Father had half-risen from his seat. "I will not be spoken to in that manner!"

Mycroft had been slowly sawing his way through his lamb chop, but he mirrored his father's action almost instinctively.

"Let's not fight this evening," he said, employing the smooth tone he'd been honing for what felt like his entire life. "Come now, I haven't been home since April, and I just want to have a nice family meal."

He'd always known he had the gift of persuasion. Getting other children to do his bidding had come like breathing, and when Sherlock was an infant, he'd responded to Mycroft's slow, measured tones better than to either of their parents. As he grew older, he learned to incorporate body language, refined his skill to the point he could change the flow of conversation with a simple shift of weight. Father was something of an exception – it was never a guarantee that Mycroft's silver tongue would work on him. The times it did not were memories Mycroft tried to bury.

Tonight, however, Siger Holmes seemed to be in an amenable mood. He nodded and resumed his seat, though he and Sherlock exchanged glares that promised a battle. Mycroft placed the bite of lamb chop in his mouth and chewed. It was a moment before the others followed suit. Mycroft didn't make eye contact with any of them, but resolutely buttered his bread and raised it to his lips. A trick learned long ago, making them uncomfortable with the idea of not returning to the polite rules of the dinner table. Sherlock picked at his bread, cocking an eyebrow at his brother in what looked like a challenge. Mycroft turned to Mummy.

"I've been so busy with school this last week I've barely had time for the papers. What has been happening in the world?"

"Well, Mr. Delaney had a break in at his nursery earlier this week. Not much taken, but the thief knew what he was about – took some of the most expensive equipment in the greenhouse."

"A gardening enthusiast gone wrong," Father said around a bite of lamb.

"No, it was Delaney's son," Sherlock said.

Mycroft tightened his lips but didn't look at Sherlock. His brother's smirk was wide enough to be seen from the corner of his eye as Father rounded on Sherlock again.

"And I suppose you know that as well as you know that that boy didn't die by accident."

"Carl Powers, and yes. I know because it's the only thing that makes sense."

Mycroft frowned and glanced at his mother. She'd steepled her fingers and brought them to her mouth in a prayer position, eyes flitting between husband and son. Whatever this was, it was information he didn't have and that was a problem.

"The police will decide what makes sense, not a 13 year-old who can't even stay in school."

"They're wrong."

"That's not for you to say."

"Why not? They've missed something – something obvious."

"Very well, then, what? What is this mystical obvious thing that only you seem to know?"

Sherlock's face crumpled into a frustrated spider web of wrinkles. "I don't know."

Father leaned back, looking self-satisfied, but Sherlock wasn't done. His eyes were alight, and his words tripped over each other as he continued.

"But I could find out. His shoes. Why were they missing? That proves something was wrong. That's what I was –"

"Enough!" Father barked, sharply enough to make all three of his family members jump. "I've told you before, Sherlock, I will not tolerate this obsession of yours. Now eat your dinner. Silently."

Mycroft sat quite still in his chair, cursing the childhood instinct that kept him from speaking. Appeasement, while efficacious a statistically insignificant portion of the time, had the advantage of allowing for a shift in strategy. And letting his father think he'd won was a basic tenet of life in the Holmes house, though he'd never been able to convince Sherlock of it.

In fact, as Mycroft speared a piece of potato and planned how to get more information on this Carl Powers, he could see Sherlock building steam across the table. The 13-year-old was pinching his bread into flat bits, grey with whatever he hadn't washed off his hands before coming to the table. His eyes were straight ahead, but his jaw muscles were working more and more insistently. If past experience was to be believed, Mycroft had approximately six seconds to intervene before things got completely out of hand. He rifled through the safe topics at his disposal.

"I saw Quin-"

"Do you realize you're letting someone off with murdering a child?"

There was a moment of utter stillness at the table. Sherlock, jaw jutted in defiance, stared at each of them in turn, daring a response. Mycroft saw his father's fist clench.

"Siger," Mummy said faintly, the entreaty half-reproof.

But Siger looked to Mycroft, who had straightened his shoulders and leaned forward ever so slightly. This was the line they'd drawn, the line he'd only crossed once since Mycroft left for uni. And as things stood, his father could ill-afford to renege on the deal. The secrets his eldest son held now were more damaging than the ones he'd used as the original bargaining chip, and they both knew it.

"Sherlock, go to your room."

"He's barely touched his dinner," Mummy protested.

"Well, he should have thought of that before he disobeyed." Siger said coldly.

Sherlock remained sitting, entire body quivering with the effort of keeping silent. Mycroft tried to catch his eye, but his brother was steadfastly ignoring him. There was a moment when it looked like Sherlock might start off again. Mycroft was already preparing for the worst. But then Mummy reached over and covered Sherlock's clenched fist with her hand. Father's mouth tightened perceptibly, but Sherlock jolted to his feet, swept them all with a scalding look, and walked out of the room.

"You baby him, Violet," Father said, attacking a potato on his plate with unnecessary force.

"He's still just a boy."

"Hardly. It's high time he learned to keep a civil tongue in his mouth." He waved his fork at Mycroft. "This one had that figured out about a decade sooner."

Mycroft gave a tight smile, but said nothing.


	3. Friday night

The rain had abated at some point during the evening. More was promised, but for now the night air lay heavy and damp around him, even with the window cracked open. The chill of late fall was not quite enough to offset the sheer weight of it. Mycroft adjusted his pillow once more and let his head flop back against it with more force than was necessary. Maybe it was simply this house that made the air clog in his lungs.

Overly dramatic, perhaps. Sherlock would no doubt approve.

At the thought of his brother, Mycroft threw the covers off and swung his legs out of bed, reaching for his robe. His little brother had always had a penchant for trouble, but he'd always assumed that the passage of time would loosen whatever coil it was within that made him so ready to jump into the thick of a problem. It was becoming clearer by the day that Sherlock simply wasn't cut out to take the easy way through life. This Carl Powers business…

He padded to the door and made his way down the ancient hallway silently. He'd memorized the creaky spots when he was no older than four. The tension in the house had coalesced in a lump in his belly that hopefully a cup of tea would sooth. The hours following dinner had been spent exchanging infrequent comments with his parents while his mother sighed silently and his father brooded. Inefficient way to spend an evening, and one calculated to give him an ulcer before he reached 25.

It didn't surprise him to find Sherlock in the kitchen when he arrived. The array of chemicals spread out on the island and the cleaning gloves on his brother's hands did give him pause, though. Common household cleaners, ammonia, and several he couldn't immediately identify. The smell scorched his nostrils.

"Mr. Nauttars cheated on his wife again, I see."

Sherlock, who was carefully pouring one of the stronger-smelling bottles into a mixing bowl, didn't look up. "Not this time. Dogfighting."

Mycroft nodded and went to the cabinet to find the tea. Their local druggist had been known to supply Sherlock with chemicals whenever the boy discovered his indiscretions.

"Have you given a thought to ventilation?"

"Window."

Mycroft glanced at the window above the sink. It was slightly open, but not enough to combat the fumes. He reached over and pushed it several inches higher before reaching for the kettle.

"Wind makes it too cold."

"Then put your robe on. I don't plan on asphyxiating myself tonight."

"Sleeves get in the way."

"Roll them up."

"They don't stay."

Mycroft gave a delicate harrumph. "That does seem to be a dilemma."

Sherlock looked up with eyes too shrewd for his years and raised an eyebrow. "You could just leave."

"You could just go to bed. You may notice I didn't suggest that as an option earlier, as I assumed it would be futile." Mycroft let enough water run for two cups and placed the kettle back on the stove. "What is all this, anyhow?"

Again that distrustful look, as if he expected Mycroft to report him to the authorities the moment his back was turn. "Experiments."

Mycroft leaned back against the counter, observing his brother. "Something to do with the Powers boy?"

He could read the buried excitement in the bunched lines of Sherlock's skinny frame. The faintest of starts at the mention of the name. Mycroft had only been able to discover cursory information about him since dinner – a boy from Bristol who went up to London for a swimming competition and drowned. Regrettable, to be sure, but not holding any particular fascination.

"I had an idea that maybe it was just a high concentration of chlorine in the water. But too messy, not controlled enough. It would have to be something else. Something not everyone would react to. Or some sort of slow-acting poison that just didn't take effect till he was in the water. Surer that way."

"Please tell me there aren't actual poisons on the surface where our food is cooked."

Sherlock raised a gloved hand. "I'm being careful. And I'll scrub everything down when I'm done."

"Well, that _is_ reassuring," Mycroft said, frowning. "What makes you think the boy was murdered?"

"A champion swimmer drowning?"

"Not unheard of."

"A boy my age, in an indoor pool, just beginning a workout he did daily? Something happened to him."

"Could have been a muscle spasm. Some sort of genetic condition. A heart attack. A stroke. An aneurysm."

"Murder. Statistically more likely than any of those options. Also, no evidence of any of them." Sherlock stirred the mixture in the bowl with his left fingers and squinted at it before turning the same questioning gaze onto his brother. "Why are you so anxious to assume it was a natural occurrence?"

"If the authorities haven't found anything –"

Sherlock's disgusted look cut him off as effectively as words. Several beats of silence passed as they observed one another, taking stock. Sherlock's face was taking on the planes of manhood, almost as unsettling a realization as the fact that his expression was as stiff and blank as it would be if he were facing a stranger. Sherlock tilted his chin a bit, settling into a defiant stance. It was an odd sensation, feeling the need to explain himself, particularly to his younger brother.

"All I'm saying is that you don't have access to all the information."

"I don't need to have access to all the information to know they're wrong."

"Perhaps so, but if you can't back your knowledge up with evidence, it's still useless."

"What do you think I'm doing in here? Cooking dinner?"

The kettle boiled. Mycroft turned around and took it off the eye.

"Speaking of which, you should have something. You barely touched dinner."

"Not hungry."

Mycroft got down two teabags and mugs and proceeded to pour. Behind him, Sherlock was emptying another foul-smelling liquid into a different bowl. Mirroring, Mycroft thought.

"What do you expect to prove by this? You don't even have the equipment to do any proper experiments."

"That's what I was trying to do at school, but then I got suspended. I've had to make do around here."

Mycroft put the kettle down unnecessarily hard and spun around to grab Sherlock's right arm. He took the edge of the high glove and stripped it off his brother's hand, ignoring the protests. The fingertips were still reddened as they had been in the afternoon.

"You've been experimenting on yourself." He spoke the words calmly, taking care to enunciate each with a cool detachment. It took a certain level of concentration to do so, even as his eyes scanned the unlabeled bottles littering the island.

"Only with the low toxicity ones. Just to see if they leave any kind of mark on the skin. They do, you know, so I was able to eliminate –"

"No."

Sherlock looked up at him in confusion. He didn't have all that far left to look up, Mycroft realized somewhere in the depths of his brain. He held the glove back out to Sherlock and continued in his cool, calm voice.

"Pour those out. Now."

"But I've only got –"

"_Sherlock_."

When necessary, Mycroft could do a perfect impression of Father, from the pitch of the voice to the slightest growl that signified danger. Both of them knew that voice. Sherlock's eyes had flashed fear before settling into a daredevil gleam.

"You can't make me. You're not him."

Mycroft reached over and placed one of the mugs on the corner of the island, leaning closer to Sherlock's face. "I don't have to be. Now pour those down the drain, wash your hands, and drink your tea."

It was strangely relieving to know that the terror still pulsating in his abdomen translated into something that could strike terror into someone else. Sherlock pulled the glove back on and grabbed the first bowl, still glaring at him. Mycroft proceeded to prepare his own cup of tea and Sherlock's, mostly to have something to do so Sherlock wouldn't see the fact that his fingers were shaking.

The task was completed in relatively short time. The tea was only slightly cooled by the time Sherlock had sprayed the sanitizing kitchen cleaner, left it to soak, and come to collect his mug.

"Thank you," Mycroft said, his voice firmer now.

Sherlock merely sipped the tea and stared straight ahead. Mycroft felt the weight in his stomach double. There had been a time, back before he'd left for uni, that he was his brother's only confidante. But that had been before Mycroft sided with Father about boarding school, before Sherlock had come to him about the affairs and been told to keep his mouth shut, and before Sherlock had decided that plowing through every restriction placed on him at school was a viable plan for the future. So many resentments that had piled up between them.

He put his mug down and turned so his body was open to his brother. "Tell me why you think it was murder."

"Why? You don't think it was."

"Convince me."

"Tell me why you're taking that stupid Treasury job."

Mycroft blinked. Sherlock pressed his advantage, keeping his eyes on the counter.

"You've never been interested in the Treasury. You're a born politician. Why aren't you heading toward Parliament?"

"I don't like being forced to ingratiate myself to others."

"Liar."

He had a point, even felt sure enough in it to smirk. Mycroft realized he was shifting his weight and forced himself to stop. He had nothing to feel guilty about.

"Very well, then. Convenience."

Sherlock looked up at him. "What, the Treasury is closer to a Tube stop? Better coffee than the Parliamentary interns get?"

"No," Mycroft said calmly. "I will go farther and much faster at the Treasury. There are dozens of bright-eyed young politicians leaving university every year. Most of them end up stuck in jobs where they accomplish about as much as the person who brings round the sandwich cart, and they work themselves to death at them. But at the Treasury, I can be noticed. The job is not demanding, the pay is adequate, and the right sorts of people have already taken notice of what I can do."

"And Father wants you there."

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Yes, Father wants me there. But what he doesn't know is that I have no intention of staying there. So by telling him I'm doing what he wants, I both pacify him and get what _I _want. It's nothing to do with bending to Father's will. It's about learning to work around it."

Sherlock frowned. "Seems like a lot of unnecessary work."

"Yes, well, you would think so," Mycroft said, almost surprised at the smile tugging at his lips. He sipped his tea to cover it. "Working around things isn't really your style."

Another smirk, followed by what might be called a chuckle. Laughter was rare in their house; any instance of it in Sherlock was a gift. Mycroft drained the last of his cup.

"Very well, then. Pass me a sponge, and I'll help you clean off these counters while you tell me about Carl Powers."

Sherlock headed for the sink and tossed a sponge at his brother, who caught it though it was flung far to the left. Sherlock attacked the closest surface, then looked up at Mycroft, eyes alight.

"It's the shoes. That's the key."


	4. Saturday Morning

Newton's Second Law: the net force on an object is equal to the rate of change of momentum

* * *

It had been well after 1 a.m. by the time Sherlock's theories had subsided to trailing sentences and bleary eyes, and Mycroft was certain he'd heard the clock strike an unseemly number of chimes when he managed to convince his brother to return to his room. Still, as a sullen dawn insinuated itself through the clouds, he dragged himself out of bed. Another weekend tradition had yet to be fulfilled.

His father was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing what appeared to be a second cup of coffee. Mycroft poured himself a cup and settled into the chair opposite, reaching for the first section of the paper that now lay discarded on the table. Siger was about halfway through the financial pages.

"Mycroft."

"Sir."

They made brief eye contact, before raising their respective papers. It always set Siger at his ease, seeing how much his oldest son emulated him. Mycroft had not been aware of the point at which the mirroring became instinctive rather than intentional, but the fact of it was undeniable. They held their papers at the same angle, raised their coffee cups at the same intervals, skimmed the pages with the same nearly-bored expressions. Add to that the fact that Mycroft had, without a doubt, inherited the Holmes nose, and the resemblance was positively uncanny. He tried not to let that thought stay too long in his mind.

The break-in at Delaney's nursery was still top news in the local paper. Mycroft glanced down the column of text, eyes attracted to the pertinent bits of information. Sherlock was right, Delaney's son was the only logical suspect. The intruder had clearly gotten in without violence and gone too far to make it look like a break-in. The damage to the store was overkill, betraying a personal vendetta aided by great familiarity with the property. Why else would the spigot for the irrigation system have been smashed? It was reasonably close to the door, but hardly a target when one was attempting to enter the building. Mycroft toyed with the idea of bringing it up to Father. _Oh, and by the way, I agree with Sherlock. It was Delaney's son._ The image almost made him laugh.

"Something funny?"

"Hm? Oh, just a typographical error." He'd actually spotted two thus far, so he'd have cover if Father pressed the point.

"Bloody incompetent editors."

Mycroft made a small noise of agreement and turned the page. The local news gave way to briefs of international news, which he skimmed. Nothing of importance.

His father twitched the paper to straighten it, then folded it beside his coffee cup and made a harrumphing sound. "Term going well?"

"Yes, sir." Mycroft did not lower his paper just yet.

"I don't suppose you've got much time for a bit of a side project."

He stifled a sigh. He had presumed as much. "It is possible I could find the time," he said, letting the paper tip forward to see his father's face.

The man had the grace to look slightly sheepish, as much as it was possible for Siger Holmes to look, but it quickly vanished.

"I've made a new acquaintance, you see, and I'm in need of some new –"

Mycroft found he did not have the patience for the usual dance. "I'll contact Fleming about getting a new credit account for you on Monday. When I have it, I'll send the information to your office. The usual code. Have you given her a name?"

"Davies."

"First name?"

"Siger."

"Unfortunate. It's not a common name. If she does much digging –"

"She won't," Siger said, raising his coffee cup to his lips. A slight smile stretched them to match the curve of the rim. "Not this one."

The rebellious part of his mind that still recognized things like morals and vows wanted to ask his father if it wasn't just a bit selfish to chase so many women of varying degrees of beauty and intelligence when he had a wife with an abundance of both. But Mycroft had learnt when he was only 6 that Father was happier when he had an intrigue or two to balance. And if Siger was happy, then life at home moved at an even keel, which was simply best for all involved. Sherlock had been a toddler the first time Mycroft helped his father cover his tracks. By now it was as much a tradition as Christmas eve pudding.

"Also, I need you to find a new hotel. Your brother ruined any chance of me going back to the last one."

Ah yes, the debacle last year that drove the most decisive wedge between the brothers. The first time Sherlock found conclusive proof of his father's infidelity and decided to tell Mummy. When he discovered Mycroft had been helping carry out the deception… well, Sherlock had never been one to tolerate illusions, no matter how well intentioned.

"What part of the city?" he asked, fingering the handle of his cup.

"Give me options. I'm not sure yet where she'll be coming from most of the time."

"Wouldn't it be more efficient to-"

Mycroft broke off as he felt the shift in his father's mood. He looked up to see Siger's lips tighten into a dangerous line. His eyes were hardening. The trigger point was easier to reach these days, apparently. Sherlock's homebound status, no doubt. He inclined his head slightly in acquiescence.

"I'll check into it and let you know."

Siger leaned back and took another sip of coffee. "Good."

Mycroft mirrored him. Habit, but one that held him in good stead. The sharp line of his father's shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly. He wondered, idly, if his father was aware of how easily he was manipulated, and how he would react if he ever found out.

"I know your mother invited you so you could try and work on your brother. Any success?"

There was camaraderie in his voice. Mycroft forced the recoil to remain internal and pushed down several of the more candid commentaries on his role as a parent in the situation.

"Oh, Sherlock doesn't take well to being 'worked on.' It's more a matter of letting him be heard that sets him straight, I think."

It was as blunt as he'd ever been with Siger, a fact that made him momentarily regretful. But a glance across the table made him realize it was not blunt enough. Siger was scoffing as if Mycroft had just suggested buying Sherlock a pony. And Mycroft hardly took his own advice when it came to his brother, so he couldn't expect his father to suddenly reform.

"I wonder sometimes," Siger said into his cup.

"Oh?"

"About his mind."

Mycroft's shoulders pulled back into a battle stance. "Oh?"

"There's something not quite right about him. You see it, too. You have to. He's all mind, that one. No emotion. No need for any sort of human relationship. I think I could shut him in his room with a chemistry set and he'd be content for a year."

"He's intelligent. I was, too, if you recall."

"Yes, but you were normal."

_You were like me._ The words hung unsaid between them. Mycroft ordered his lips into a smile of acknowledgement.

Siger drained his cup and shook his head. "Some days I think I ought to have him tested again. He's practically a danger to society, and only just hitting his teen years."

"He's never in trouble when his brain is occupied. Perhaps a more challenging school?"

"He's not coddled where he is. He stays. Unless they expel him after this last incident, that is. But they make him toe the line. It's good for him. Discipline. He stays there or he comes home and can make do at the local school."

Mycroft considered the ramifications of putting Sherlock back in the house with his father full-time, adding in the element of Sherlock being forced back into state school. This round went to Siger, no question. Even if Mycroft had to bribe Sherlock into behaving.

He realized a beat too late that his father expected a response. He raised his coffee cup in an attempt to cover for it.

"Well, I'm sure he'll rise to the challenge."

* * *

The incident regarding Sherlock's interference is explored in chapter 4 of my story "As We Are, As We Were."


	5. Saturday Morning continued

I'm so sorry this has been so long coming! I've been busy with writing (the kind I get paid to do), as well as several other projects, and I've barely been online beyond a quick email check, or for research. This has been sitting in my "edited" folder for over a week.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Mycroft had brought several textbooks with him in case he needed an excuse to escape the family. As it happened, by midmorning, he was more than ready to avail himself of the escape route. Mummy had come down to say Sherlock was sleeping heavily enough to snore and beg Mycroft's secret.

"He's barely slept a wink since he's been home," she exclaimed, gazing at Mycroft with the kind of glowing pride usually reserved for his younger brother.

"Everyone hits their breaking point eventually, even 13-year-olds," Mycroft replied, shrugging into the dregs of his coffee.

Siger smiled tightly at his wife and stood to give her a requisite morning kiss before settling back into his chair and raising his already-read paper. "He would have been better off left alone. That is the point of being sent to one's room."

Mycroft inclined his head in acknowledgement. "I thought perhaps a bit of advice from his big brother might help matters."

The fact that both parents nodded shouldn't have surprised him, but there was a tinge of hot frustration nonetheless. He and Sherlock had the misfortune – or perhaps the fortune, he'd never quite decided which – of having parents who had no idea how to deal with children of their ilk. Father, at least, had been quick to recognize opportunity in the form of Mycroft's skills at deception and misdirection. He'd never had much patience for Sherlock's less practical form of brilliance. Mummy, Mycroft thought, might have been better off with a pair of kittens rather than children.

"I was thinking, Siger," Violet began, seating herself with an air of facing a disagreeable task. "About the meeting next week –"

"I've already said you can come along," Siger snapped.

"Yes, but I wanted to talk to you about what the headmaster –"

"Not this again."

"He's wrong. You know he's wrong."

"Do I?"

Violet recoiled as if slapped. "You don't actually mean you're thinking of putting him –"

"I'm thinking very strongly about having him tested. Once we know the results of that, we can discuss our options."

Siger fixed both his wife and son with a glare that clearly forbade further comment on the subject. Mycroft swallowed the objection in his throat and carried his cup to the sink. If he were to dissuade his father, it would have to be by redirection.

"Did I tell you I saw Quinton in the library the other day?"

At the mention of his cousin, Mummy perked up immediately.

"Oh? How is he?"

"He's engaged, so my guess is he's short of sleep, money, and good marks. He, however, seems perfectly content with the arrangement."

"Engaged? To whom? Why didn't we receive an announcement? When did it happen?"

He smiled benignly, choosing his details. "I believe her name was Lisa. Umm… Lisa Harrison. You'd have to ask Quinton yourself. Or Aunt Margaret, as I expect she knows the details better than Quin. I gave him our congratulations, naturally."

Siger chimed in, just as Mycroft had anticipated, with a gruff, "That's why he missed the appointment with Garvin, then. Not too keen on a clerk position when he's got a lady to squire around. The fool."

"Perhaps," said Mycroft. "Though he mentioned he'd been talking with Lisa's father about some sort of clerk position in _his _firm."

It was enough. Siger had the light of battle in his eyes.

"Harrison, you said? Not the daughter of George Harrison?"

"I don't know."

"George Harrison of Harrison and Vaughn?"

"I already said I don't know," Mycroft said, lifting one shoulder in a faint shrug.

Siger was already out of his chair, jaw set. "I have some calls to make."

Mycroft stepped out of his way just late enough that their shoulders brushed against each other. Siger gave him a brief glare but continued on his way. Good. The distraction would keep his father occupied most of the day, long enough for the notion of Sherlock's psychiatric testing to fade from his immediate concerns.

Mummy was smiling at him again, this time rather knowingly. "I'll have to call Margaret and ask for the full story. It's not like you to be uniformed."

"Details of some soppy proposal story aren't likely to be something I waste brainspace on."

"So there's no news of your own on that score?"

He should have foreseen that his chosen feint would elicit this response. His mind scrambled for the best response. He could tell her about one of the three girls and two guys he'd managed to have proposition him at the last party he attended. He'd been experimenting with various postures and their effects, and had managed to successfully entice 12 people to flirt, five to actually make a proposition of further intimacy, and also found it possible to rebuff the beginning advances of three others simply by adjusting his shoulders and extremities. A rousing success, from his perspective, but not quite what Mummy was expecting.

"When there is something to report, you'll hear of it."

"University is the time to meet people, have those exciting relationships, you know," Mummy said, smiling faintly as she focused on the left thumbnail of her interlaced hands. "It's those crazy relationships in uni that get you ready for the serious ones after."

Mycroft returned the smile to the same degree. "And how ready were you?"

She wrapped her fingers around her mug and raised it, eyeing him with something like regret, even as her tone turned cheerful.

"Just don't feel the need to wait till it's serious. A mother likes to know what's going on in her son's life, you know. I'd hate to think you were keeping secrets."

He gave the requisite chuckle, and she reciprocated. Routines established in his boyhood. Ah, the games the Holmes play.

Mycroft had lost track of how long he'd been in the armchair with his economics book when he was jolted from his papers by the shrill ring of the phone. He glanced at the window. The light had shifted enough that it had to be near onto noon. He'd just lifted the book again when the ring came again. Apparently Father was on the other line.

He shuffled his books to the floor and bounded to scoop up the receiver by the third ring.

"Holmes residence."

"This is Sergeant Garvey down at the station. Could I speak to Mr. Holmes, please?"

Mycroft stilled. The voice was too relaxed to signify any true danger, but it was the resigned note in it that registered for him. Sherlock.

"He's occupied, but this is Mycroft, his older son."

"Well, Mycroft, I'd be obliged if you could come take your little brother off my hands."


End file.
